


You and I Both Know..

by Angryangryowl



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Fluff, Haunting, Light Angst, M/M, Murder, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-20
Updated: 2017-09-20
Packaged: 2019-01-01 03:03:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12147240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angryangryowl/pseuds/Angryangryowl
Summary: Oswald and Edward are murdered in the Van Dahl mansion a century apart. Their unquiet spirits find each other...





	You and I Both Know..

**Author's Note:**

> Day 3 of Nygmobblepot Week 2017: Domestic
> 
> House ghosts :)

Edward had, in life, a tendency to say exactly what he thought. Which had many times proved an unfortunate trait for a doctor in training. But once he finally became personal physician to Thaddius Van Dahl, it ceased to matter. Thaddius was a good man, self-made, a tailor and a philanthropist in his old age. Had seen Ed’s curiosity, his voracious appetite for new books, his constant, itching need to learn, to know. 

They first met when Ed came looking for a suit. Even now, in his fifties, and prosperous enough to afford several employees, Thaddius enjoyed doing the work himself. The heavy-wrought scissors felt right in his hand, a purpose, even as his joints ache. He enjoyed the low chatter of the customers, the sudden shared intimacy of their problems as he measured and pinned, cut and stitched.

Edward picks out a mid range, bottle-green pinstripe. Wool, heavyweight, solid fabric that would last a lifetime. A little eccentric but tasteful.

‘Looking to impress a pretty girl?’ He inquires, slipping the tape around ed’s neck and jotting a measurement.

‘As it happens..’

‘I don’t see how she can refuse, a handsome young buck like you. You look like a smart one, too. What did you say you did again?’

‘I’m a doctor, Sir.’

‘Up at the asylum?’

‘Oh, no. Not yet. I’ve finished medical school, but I’d prefer to undertake work as a private physician. More time to persue my own interests.’

‘Such as?’ Thaddius prompts, running the tape across the backs of his shoulders.

‘Reading. Largely sciences, anatomy, physiology, but I enjoy it all.’

‘I don’t suppose you know much about the treatment of rheumatism, do you, Mr. Nygma?’

A job as a private physician to one of the most prestigious families in Gotham doesn’t impress the girl in question. Miss Kringle only looks at him in pity, as she always has, arm in arm with a handsome young officer who soon ushers her away.

It surprises Edward how close they grow as Thaddius ages, often preferring the company of the young doctor over his greedy, small minded daughter and her husband, a lech and a gambler. They’d often sit in the library, taking tea and discussing the day’s events, or sit together, enjoying good books, quiet company, and the late afternoon sunshine through the high windows.

Thaddius never revealed the generous percentage of his wealth allocated to Edward in his will. Evangeline found that by herself. Such a loss, almost the entirety of the Van Dahl estate, would ruin them. 

Which is how Ed falls ‘accidentally’ down the stone steps of the rose garden. Bleeds quietly to death amongst the flowers, a grizzly head injury splitting his peaceful face.

It wasn’t fair.

He’s had decades to rage and scream, pounding on mirrors and walls which his fists melt through like nothing at all, hurling china and silverware down the staircases. Shouting, calling, begging, for Kristen, for his mother, for Thaddius, who dies a few months later, greif-stricken and penniless.

The mansion falls into disrepair, seldom visited by the Van Dahl descendants. Dust and mould clings, heavy, to the place. The wallpaper fades and peels. Ivy curls its fingers through the front door, twining itself through the ornate chandelier in the entrance hall. 

Until one day, almost a century later, a young man moves in. Around Edward’s age, give or take a few decades in the afterlife.

Small, slim, a pinched and tired looking face. Edward hears him called Cobblepot, and wonders what right he has to the Van Dahl mansion. He holds a lot of meetings. Edward watches, perched on the balcony over the dining room, or in the light fittings. Something he finds about being a...ghost? Spirit? Apparition? There’s no proper medical term for his current state. But the thing about his current state is that the laws of physics, and what would and would not support his slight weight in life, no longer matter.

In the meetings he learns that this man, Oswald, is important. A gang leader, eventually, a mob boss. Lord of all he surveys. Edward no longer has a heartbeat, but he feels something in him flutter when he watches Oswald, at the head of the table as ever, commanding. He begins to like him. Root for him. It’s been known for people who cross Oswald to find their car keys slung across the front lawn. A glowing swell of pride in him when it all comes to fruition, as Oswald grows more and more powerful. He weeps with him for the loss of his mother. Feels the grief as keenly as his own, wails and pounds the mirror in the upper hallway until it shatters, until Oswald stands, shivering and sobbing in his pyjamas in the corridor, clutching a candle and a revolver ‘Mother? Is that you?’

Ed can’t comfort him. Oswald doesn’t seem to hear him, although shivers a little at a gentle hand on his shoulder. He even smiles a little at the tightly-furled purple rose left on his pillow the next morning, whispering ‘thank you’ to the empty air.

Ed sees that revolver again too soon, pointed at Oswald. A coup, three of his closest associates grinning as the revolver is pressed to his temple. The man holding the gun, portly, middle-aged and bald, seems almost gleeful as the cold metal bites into Oswald’s hairline ‘No hard feelings, bird boy. We’ve got a business to run…’

Ed screams, charges at him, howling at the single, world-shattering shot. Oswald crumples to the carpet, wine glass tipping from his lifeless hand, seeping into the gory splatter of blood and brain matter on the hearthrug.

It seems to unfair to grieve again. The house cannot be sold. Nobody wants a mansion where the staircases sob, the lamps flicker without warning, and a single, misty figure floats around the rose garden at night. It seems unfair to miss someone who was barely aware of his existence. And he does miss him. A great, grieving ache carves open the pit of his stomach. Because now he’s alone again. Perhaps forever..

Oswald returns on a stormy night about a month later. Sheets cover the furniture. The funeral is a quiet affair. Ed mourns by himself in the attic, comforting himself with a stolen knitted sweater of Oswald’s.

Edward is only alerted to his presence by a quiet sobbing in the hallway. Sniffling. He’s made no effort to scare anyone. Perhaps someone is lost.

Curious, he floats through the banisters of the grand central staircase, to see a shadowy figure sitting on the bottom step. A familiar hunch, a twisted ankle. That ridiculous crested hair.

‘Oswald?’

The figure jumps guiltily, easily floating into a standing position. This, at least makes Edward smile a little. Oswald had always struggled, with both standing and stairs.

‘Who are you? Why are you in my house?’ His face is almost childlike, mercifully there’s no evidence of his gruesome demise. He looks up the staircase at Ed, distrustful.

‘I am, arn’t I? Dead?’

Ed answers those last two questions first, with a solemn nod. He tries not to smile. It seems doubly unfair that this man, this beautiful man he’s watched over, laughed and cried with for months, is only able to perceive him now that they’re both dead.

‘Edward.’ He says softly, reaching for Oswald ‘Dr. Edward Nygma.’

‘Oswald Cobblepot’ he says stonily, but softens a little as he looks up at him ‘Did they get you too?’

‘Something like that. Not those particular gentlemen, who….’ He gestures to oswald’s forehead which earns him a sharp glare ‘But yes, they got me too. About a century ago.’

‘It was you then.’ Oswald says softly, understanding crossing the misty haze where his features should be ‘The roses, the crying at night, the...the keys!’

‘I may have had something to do with that.’ 

‘I don’t understand..’

‘We could be here a long time, there’s time to explain.’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘Reading mostly. Hearsay. A Priest came to exorcise this place. Strange man.’

This is too ridiculous as a statement for Oswald to ignore, and he grins.

‘But as far as I understand, spirits, apparitions...ghosts, like us, are held on the mortal plane by unfinished business. An injustice, a violent and gruesome death, or..love.’ He finishes, trying to keep sadness from his voice.

‘So you must know a way we could be released?’

Ed quirks an eyebrow at him ‘Considering our current state?’

‘Stranger things have happened..’

Ed sighs, a little exasperated ‘I’m not quite sure they have. And nobody knows how, why, it happens. There’s theories, spells, incantations. But I can’t leave the garden to find ingredients. And the overriding theory still seems to be something from a fairytale.’

Oswald gives him a hard look, bidding him to continue.

‘Finishing the unfinished business. Revenge. Or persuading someone who loves you very much to salt and burn your remains.’

‘I was cremated. And nobody alive loves me very much.’ Oswald says flatly.

‘Their feelings towards you arn’t central to those requirements. I just presumed to be exhuming your mortal remains, loving you very much would be an advantage.’

Oswald shakes his head.

‘Then that only leaves revenge.’

They try. Oswald’s connection to the physical still seems fresh, sharp, unlike Edwards. Moving physical objects, tempting his traitorous associates back to the house, comes easier to him.

It’s a long few months. Oswald grows frustrated, screams and wails, throwing every last dish in the kitchen to the floor, howling in the attic for his mother. 

Edward waits, patiently. Sitting on the gallery stairs. It seems pointless to stop Oswald from tearing apart his own house. It's days before he stops, comes to find Ed, floating aimlessly through the upper bedrooms

'Why are you still here?’

'I was here first.’

'But you can't take revenge, I imagine..’

'No. I don't believe there's a way for .me to leave.’ He says it softly, resignedly.

Theft keep each other company in the meantime. Explore the gardens at night. When Oswald is sufficiently amused, he can persuade the keys of the dusty piano in the library into life. Several realtors and potential buyers are frightened away by a hesitant few bars of Fur Elise or La Vie en Rose accompanied by far-away sounding laughter.

Ed can't manage to turn the pages of the heavy books in the library, Oswald reads to him. They waltz, Edward humming a lazy melody as they sail across the ballroom floor,floating over dustsheet covered tables.

It's laying on Oswald's bed that Edward first notices. The fading at his fingertips. Oswald, laying next to him, has faded around his temples and cheeks.

'Are you alright?’

'Yes. I actually haven't been quite so content in a long time…’

The fading continues, fingers, hands, feet. Edward is soon only a vague shape, shoulders and torso.

Oswald can just about make out his face, standing in the rose garden under the crisp starlight of a fall night.

'You're nearly gone…’

'I think I'm going somewhere better. With you.’

There’s a barely perceptible smile, his mouth swimming in and out of focus.

'Come with me. Stay with me.’

'Darling…’ Oswald whispers, lips just brushing Ed's cheek, embracing the last of him as they melt away together.


End file.
